Severus Snape was not happy to have Harry Potter in his Potions class. He was not happy, but he could use it to his advantage. Oh, he remembered all the worthless little tricks that Potter and Black had played on him throughout his school years, and an alarming amount had to do with them recklessly tampering with a potion. Throwing something, jostling his cauldron, raising the fire temperature—Severus was surprised that he hadn’t been killed by an explosion gone bad, but then he had always had excellent dodging skills. He gave a little sneer and sent sarcastic thanks to his childhood—it gave him something useful, at least.

He had it all planned out. He knew what would happen exactly if he dropped in an extra handful of quills, if he raised the temperature half a hair. He knew exactly what to do to make sure Potter suffered, to make sure Potter failed, for once. Part of his mind was whispering that the boy didn’t look exactly like James—the eyes, for one, and he never remembered James as being that puny. But that was splitting hairs—the boy had enough of a resemblence for Severus to take an inordinate amount of hate in watching the first years file in.

Harry Potter was not scared to have Severus Snape as his Potions teacher. He was terrified, with an edge of righteous anger. Oh, he knew that Snape wouldn’t dear fight him in a crowded classroom—not physically, at least. But there were still a lot of things he could do, and harry was far too clever to think that everything would be all right. After Malfoy had spoiled his breakfast—not that his appetite had been very good before hand, really—he had forsaken breakfast in order to properly prepare for Potions.

He had it all planned out. He would do like he did at the Dursley’s when Uncle Vernon was in a bad mood. Be quiet, try to avoid eye contact. He would be meek and just take whatever the man dealt out. Part of his mind was fiercely angry that he would even entertain doing that, giving in to him, but the other part of his mind reminded him about how the man had shown that he wouldn’t hold back if Harry pushed him. And in front of a class of students was the last place Harry wanted to push him. He toyed with the idea of making a run for it—but he didn’t know yet what lay beyond the forest, and the headmaster had made it clear they were very far from any place Harry could run to. He decided to play it safe, and he swallowed nervously as he fell into line behind Teddy as the Slytherin first years filed up outside the Potions classroom and entered the darkness.

The classroom was cold and dim and almost comfortingly reminded Harry of his cupboard. It smelled like steam and plants and a sharp, almost acidic smell that made Harry’s eyes water a little bit. Harry almost thought that he could learn to like the classroom, but then he looked at the jars that lined the walls and saw a small webbed hand floating in one and he heard the familiar, almost frightening swoop of robes and he knew he would hate this room more than anywhere in Hogwarts. He could never like it, no matter how much it reminded him of his cupboard, because Snape was here and Snape was the reason he didn’t have his cupboard anymore. Not that he liked his cupboard so much, but it was home. The only place he had ever had.

Harry took his seat next to Teddy carefully, kept his eyes trained on the back of Draco Malfoy’s head and the way the boy’s ears were slightly pointed. He focused so heavily on them, on the way the boy brushed his hair straight back and how his collar was perfectly pressed, that he almost didn’t notice when Snape started to pace the classroom. He heard the robes swish, though, and he froze, hands clutching at the desk as the robes stopped behind him and Snape’s shadow fell on his desk.

“Potter,” the man spat, and Harry was proud of himself that his inner tremble didn’t travel. Whether it was a tremble of fear or of hate, he could not tell you. Probably some of both.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy,” Snape snarled, and Harry brought his eyes up so they met defiantly with the Potions Master. That’s when he knew that, no matter how much he wanted to lay low and keep quiet, his body wouldn’t let him. He didn’t think Snape would let him, either.

The man glared once more, than turned on his heel and went back to the front of the room. Harry swallowed and fixed his eyes to the top of his desk. It was pitted and worn with age, and he pressed his hands down to calm the temper that was already rising. He felt Teddy edge away from him a little bit, and he almost wanted to look up and tell the boy it was okay, he could go sit with Greengrass or Davis or Zabini. Because no good could come of sitting with him. He looked up at Teddy quickly, and Teddy gave him an apologetic look. Harry just nodded and looked back down, listening to Teddy pull his bag together and hurriedly shuffle to the nearest available desk—next to the Lump, Goyle.

Just then, the Gryffindor’s burst into the classroom.

Led by Evan Haightley, a short, smiling boy with blonde curls, they ran into the room all out of breathe, falling into seats as they would. Evan launched into an explanation about Peeves and a dark corridor that brought them to the Astronomy Tower, though they hadn’t climbed any stairs. It was at that point that the smiley boy stopped smiling and Snape had opened his mouth.

“Do I really look like I care?” Snape sneered, and the boy fell silent and stopped his smile.

“I just—“

“In this school, you are expected to appear for classes on time and, if not on time, without causing a ruckus.” Snape glared at the group as if the only thing he hated more than a ruckus was a Gryffindor—or possibly Harry Potter, who he sent a glare to for good measure. “Of course, as it is your first week in school—“

Evan had a hopeful look. “We’re awful sorry, sir—“

“Don’t interrupt. Ten points from Gryffindor. The Slytherin first years have been here for the same amount of time, yet they seemed to be able to show up on time and ready to learn.”

Evan’s mouth pressed in a tight line and he took a seat next to a boy with fiery red hair, who muttered something about overgrown brats and stupid Slytherin gits.

“Another two for that, I think—Weasley, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered in a grumble. Harry immediately liked him, just for the way he was acting to Snape. He gave a little smile to the desk, then looked in surprise to the side when he felt someone sit down and start unloading things from their bag.

He had hoped it was Teddy—he had grown to like the boy, and it would be nice to have a sort of friend at this place for the time he was there. He was a little disappointed to see that it was a bushy haired girl with big brown eyes and slightly larger than average front teeth. She was unloading her parchment and quills and spared Harry a side look.

“Hermione Granger,” she whispered as Snape started to take roll. “How do you do?”

“Erm—Harry Potter,” Harry said. He darted a look to the front of the room, where Snape was verbally berating Haightley for his brother’s lack of any sort of skill. “You shouldn’t sit here,” he whispered. “You’ll get in trouble.”

The girl didn’t seem to pay attention. She was sitting, her hands primly folded, looking forward. Harry sighed and dug out his own quill. He hated writing with a quill. He got ink all over his hand and sleeve when it dripped and he’d been docked a point in Defense for his messy sleeves. He yearned for a pencil, or even a ballpoint. Crayon would do. But the pot of ink was just asking for trouble, really, and Harry knew that one of these days someone would either startle him or intentionally knock his ink bottle all over something important.

When Severus got to Harry’s name, he stopped. Looked up at the boy, who was staring at his desk, not paying any attention. A sneer curled over his lips, and he almost slipped and said James, but caught himself.

“Harry Potter. Our new…celebrity.”

The boy tensed and nodded. Snape scowled. “Vocal answer!” he snapped, and he heard a sullen, rebellious ‘Here, sir.’

He almost slapped the boy right there. But he pulled it in. He held it back. He was capable of that, you know, of holding back. But he wasn’t terribly capable of it, if you know what I mean. He was capable enough to hold back, but it was only a temporary set back. Something else would push it, push it until it exploded, and then he would be incapable of anything save rage.

That was how Severus Snape had operated for years. He could keep his control, certaintly, but not when everything piled up.

Harry listened to the speech about the subtle science and exact art of potion-making carefully. He took notes—scrawled, messy ones that left ink smudges on his fingers—and so did the girl next to him. Her handwriting was small and neat, he noticed, though there was still the occasional smudge or ink drop that tipped him off that she was like him—she lived with Muggles and probably was yearning for a good pencil, or even a computer like Dudley’s.

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly, and Harry’s hand jumped, leaving fat drops of ink over his notes. Draco sniggered and Harry silently cursed. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry’s eyes widened marginally and he racked his brain. He’d read through the first few chapters of the book, yes, but that was all about the composition of potions—animal to vegetable to mineral. Nothing about actual, real potions. Hermione, next to him, almost hit him in the face as her hand flew into the air. He shook his head.

“I don’t know, sir.”

The sneer grew more vicious. “Well, well—clearly fame isn’t everything.” Snape scanned the boy and smirked. “Or even something.”

Malfoy let out another snigger.

“Let’s try again, shall we? Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry was again stumped. Hermione wiggled her hand in the air. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t even crack a text before class, did you, Potter?” Harry wanted to yell that of course he hadn’t read the whole blasted thing before class, as he hadn’t been allowed anything when Dumbledore had kept him in that room, or in the hospital wing. He pulled his lips into a scowl.

“I did, actually,” he mumbled, and Snape’s eyes seemed to burn a hole in him.

“What was that, Potter?”

“I said I did read through some of the book before class,” Harry said louder. After a loaded pause, he added “Professor.”

Snape’s cheeks had a very faint red tinge, and Harry was sure his own cheeks were the same. His fingers were trembling, and he wrapped them in the sleeves of his robes.

“I find that doubtful, Potter, otherwise you would be able to answer my questions in a satisfactory matter. Or is it a little liar along with an abysmal student?”

“I’m not a liar,” Harry said stiffly. “I did. I read the first four chapters.”

“The first four chapters,” Snape sneered. “And that adequetely prepares you for class, does it? Perhaps in your lower school the first four chapters were sufficient. But this is Hogwarts, Potter, and your lack of preparation is a blight on your house. Detention.”

Harry ducked his head and clenched his fists. Next to him, Hermione wiggled her hand a little more insistently.

“Why don’t we try once more, Potter—perhaps this will have been found in the first four chapters.” Harry tightened his fists until he felt his nails digging into his palm. Snape used a biting, taunting tone. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry’s ears burned. Hermione waved her hand, then stood up. Snape still ignored her.

“I don’t know.” Harry licked his lips, and before Snape could jump in with another insult, he ventured in with “Granger does.”

The man’s sneer deepened, though Harry hadn’t thought that was possible. “Did I call on Granger, Potter?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, sir. You called on me. But I—“

“You don’t know. How…typical. And how disappointing.” Malfoy was cracking up with silent laughter, while Teddy had that calculating look on his face that made him look like a rat. “One would have thought that you being sorted into Slytherin might show some talent or ambition. It would seem not.”

“I have an ambition,” Harry said under his breath.

“Oh? And what’s that, Potter? Do you aspire to become gamekeeper, then? Or no—perhaps that is a bit too high of an aim.”

There was a unelegant snort from Zabini’s direction. Harry didn’t let it phase him. Even though his hands were shaking and a little voice in his mind was yelling at him not to, to be careful, to look around at all the fires and the bubbling cauldrons and the jars that could be used as projectiles, he ignored it all and wrapped his hands in his sleeves again and said in as clear a voice as he could muster “I want to snap your wand in two again.”

Snape’s sneer turned to an ugly, angry scowl and his pallid face tinged slightly red. “That’s another detention, Potter, for your cheek.” He then rattled off a list of important facts that everyone hurried to copy down except Harry. His hands were still shaking too bad to be even the tiniest bit successful with the quil. Granger nudged him with her elbow.

“You’d better take notes,” she whispered, her head still bowed over her paper as she scribbled. “He’ll only get angrier, that’s what the other Gryffindor’s say.”

Harry showed her his hands under the desk top and whispered back “I’d just make a mess of it. I’ll get the notes from Teddy later.”

The girl murmered “You—you could borrow mine,” very quietly, then shot Harry a look and a small smile.

Harry returned it hesitantly. His face felt unused to the simple action, and that scared him a little bit. “Thanks.”

His hands settled a little bit, but there was still a faint tremor as he reached for his ingredients kit.

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Severus Snape’s hands were trembling. The outrage, the utter nerve of it! Of that—that impudent little wretch, that spoiled arrogant brat. The nerve of him—Snape’s mind ran in circles as he lectured, his shaking hands hidden in his sleeves, the right one clenched around his wand. A wand and a wizard had a special sort of bond, and Severus had lost every other bond he’d ever had—and now his wand, too. It had almost made him want to slap the boy silly, push him into a cauldron and boil him up. It was too much for one man to bear. He would have taken points, he was sure, if the boy was a Gryffindor, but he wouldn’t sabotage his own house like that. Not for one stupid Potter.

Even now he was mocking Severus. Sitting in the back, not even taking notes, just staring front with that infuriatingly smug look on his face. He and Granger were whispering to each other, too, and Severus held himself back. If he snapped at the boy once more he might never regain his control. How impossible it was, but right in front of his eyes, the old cliché was playing out—history repeats itself. Another Potter taking a liking to an infuriating, know-it-all Mudblood. Though this one wasn’t half as pretty—even Severus could admit that Lily Evans was not hard on the eyes. Severus scanned the classroom once, wondering if there was a younger him in the class. But he couldn’t see anything but smug, stupid Potter, and he decided to save his surveilance for a later date.

He cleared his throat and the children all looked up at him. At least his little show down with Potter had shown them something. The Gryffindor’s were terrified, and even Davis and Nott were a little on edge. Malfoy looked smug and complacent, of course—there was Lucius’ double, though Lucius was several years ahead of Snape in school. Crabbe and Goyle were sluggishly taking notes, their eyes dull and one of them was picking his nose. Zabini had his hands folded primly and was looking at him in a facsimile of attention.

Potter just met his glare with that smug, blank look on his face.

Severus’s fingers itched to wipe that look away.

“Cauldrons out,” he snapped, and he tapped the board with his wand. A little slower than usual—though these brats would never know the difference—but out came the instructions. “Brew this.”

In the bustle of activity, he saw Potter and Granger pair up. Nott sent an apologetic look over his shoulder—Severus would have to have a word with the boy, Peranius was much too smart to raise a boy so foolish—and saw Potter pat his pocket uncertaintly as he started to organize ingredients.

Snape felt an idea come to mind. He cleared his throat again and everyone froze.

“As this is a Potions course, there’s to be no magic—this is a fairly simple potion, I’m sure you won’t need it.”

With slight grumbles, students started to pocket wands or put them in their bags.

“I’ll hold the wands, I believe. Until the end of class.”

He saw Potter stiffen, then relax. The others all filed up and deposited their wandss on his desk—Malfoy, he saw, stayed seated, and Snape let it pass.

Potter didn’t move.

“Hand over your wand, Potter,” he snarled, and he bore down on the boy. Granger, who had re-seated herself, looked up at him, her eyes almost as big as those obnoxious teeth. Potter just kept his eyes focused on the desk.

“I left it in the dorm, sir.”

Snape felt his face color. “You’re a little liar, now hand it over or it’ll be another detention.”

Potter still didn’t move. “I can’t give you what I don’t have, sir.” He paused, then he carefully reached over to porcupine quills and started to make a neat pile out of them. “I knew you’d do something like this, you see. So I did something first.”

Snape’s face was red, he could tell, and his temper was pounding in his ears. He reached out and grabbed Potter’s arm, squeezed it so tight that Potter took a sharp gasp of breath.

“Give it to me, Potter,” he hissed, sure that most of the children were anxiously mucking up their potions and thus paying no attention to him.

Potter tried to pull his arm away. “I haven’t got it, now let me go or I’ll scream.”

Snape could feel the boy trembling and he tightened his grip. He could also, however, feel the eyes of the insufferable Granger pinned to him, could sense Haightley and the Weasley boy in the corner scrutinizing his back. Nott too had a sharp, calculating eye towards him as he measured out his quills.

Snape let the boy go with a snarl. Potter kept calmly organizing the ingredients, and Granger turned back to stirring the potion.

Snape made several rounds past the two, and Potter’s faintly shaking shoulders never failed to buoy his dangerously high temper. Finally, on the last walk by, his hand slipped out and tossed a handful of quills in, then quickly walked away to Malfoy’s cauldron. Adequete, he supposed.

The explosion was satifyingly loud, but when he turned to see the potion fly into the air, he was disappointed when Potter ducked out of it’s path and dragged Granger out of the way, diving across the aisleway.

“Detention!” Snape had snapped, and he was about to continue when the class ended and the children all pushed their way to the front to get their wands. Snape scowled and allowed Potter to duck out of the room, a bit satisfied to hear the boy run down the hallway. Granger seemed to dart after him.

It wasn’t until he was cleaning up the mess later that he thought about Potter’s extraordinary dodging skills. He brushed it away and told himself it was luck, or that damnable Potter athletic skill. James had certainly been fit enough, after a point. Though he’d never had dodging skills like Severus. Or like his son. But surely it was just that. Luck, or some idiotic skill. Not like Severus’ skill. Not at all. Not Potter.

But some tiny voice in the back of his head wasn’t so sure, so he focused on magicking away the cooled mess.